


for the last time

by allsovacant



Series: something to cry on [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First and last time, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 15:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15173825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: When John and Sherlock gets home from John's stag night, John forces Sherlock for the truth about The Fall, ending to an actual love confessions—and John receiving a gift from Sherlock.





	for the last time

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'ed for the love of mistakes—

John slams his fists on the kitchen table making Sherlock's petri dishes clattering on the floor. He knew Sherlock was staring at him. He knew he shouldn't be even back here at Baker Street. He knew he should be back on his flat. But instead, he's here, fresh from his Stag Night—with a drunk Sherlock, and he himself dizzy from the countless shots of whisky Greg and Mike passed over him as he loses from the Truth or Dare game they started. He couldn't even remember picking Truth even once—for the reason that the questions are all about him and Sherlock. So he chose Dare, fortunately, the Dare was fixed on drinking the number of shots his friends are going to give him. But the night ended right away after the fifteenth question, when he walked out after Mike asked with such admiration if Sherlock told him the truth about The Fall. Later in the cab, Mike apologised via text, in which John haven't replied. He will deal with Mike some other day. But now, he believes it's about time, he and Sherlock discusses The Fall. 

John clears his throat. He drags his tongue over his lower lip before gazing up on his flatmate. Sherlock was now standing on the window. The yellow lights of the lampposts drapes over his figure. The view in front of him felt ethereal. And then all of a sudden, the memories of how he and Sherlock met flashed before his eyes. Sherlock's smiles, Sherlock's giggles, Sherlock's brilliance—his idiotic ways of always chasing a criminal without John and coming home either bruised, bleeding, with a dislocated shoulder. And John fixes him, always. John remembers the feel of Sherlock's skin beneath his calloused hands. Smooth, pale, soft, virgin. He catches his breath as his thoughts involuntarily shifts to boldness. He's aware that Sherlock was charming and attractive. He's smart, but also an idiot in his own way. And John was glad and proud of himself when he grounds Sherlock. And the fact that Sherlock allows him made John's chest ache. The trust Sherlock had given him. But then The Fall happened, and John realised—finally he reached a conclusion about what he feels over Sherlock. But right now, he needs Sherlock to enlighten him. He needs to hear everything from Sherlock. 

"You have questions." John startles as he hears Sherlock's voice. Deep and smooth just as how he loves it. God, these thoughts. _Focus, John._ He clears his throat before speaking. "Do you even considering explaining why... _The Fall_ , Sherlock? ... for the last time." 

John watches as Sherlock walks back to his chair, and sits cross-legged, those greyish-greenish eyes falls back to him, "What even brought this now, John?" 

John draws a breath, "Well, let's see—"

John walks to the living room, to his armchair, hands gripping hard on its headrest. Sherlock braces himself for what to come. Finally, he watches as John's shoulder straightens and deep blue eyes staring at him. 

"You MADE ME WATCH, SHERLOCK. Just in case, you've forgotten that, YOU MADE ME BLOODY WATCH AS YOU JUMPED OFF THAT BLOODY ROOFTOP. And until now, I still haven't heard your explanation. Don't you think maybe—just MAYBE—you owe me the truth." 

"I've told Anderson how I survived—" 

"The hell I care how you've survived and what you've told Anderson! Giving you have a brother like Mycroft. I'm sure that's easy as ranking the crimes you've solved."

"We, John." Sherlock says

John halts, breathing in slowly, "What?"

"We—the crimes we have solved." 

"We—Don't. distract. me. you. berk." John breathes out.  
   
"I'm not distracting—" 

"Just say the bloody truth! Before I—" 

"Calm down, John."

"I am calm."

"John."

"For God's sake! Sherlock Holmes." 

John raises his hands on the air, as if to surrender. He watches his flatmate as the man fumbles on the hem of his shirt. The silence that follows was almost deafening.

—####################—

Sherlock couldn't stare at John anymore. Truth was—he couldn't bear what's happening. Why was John so eager to know everything about this matter? What for? John's going to get married. He's leaving him. What else is this about?

Sherlock pushes up his knees and wraps his arms around him. 

"I need to do that, John— for you to live. You, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."

"That's what you told Anderson." 

"Yes." He replies weakly. Sherlock watches as John walks in front of him. 

"And how am I supposed to deal with that? You made me believe you died Sherlock. Do you even—Do you even understand what happened to the people you have left." 

Sherlock looked up to see John's face. Flushed—from anger, tired eyes, John needs rest clearly. 

Sherlock stands, careful not to crowd on John's space. He walks to the couch and stares at the blank wall in front of him. Before it was full of pin-up papers, newspaper clippings of cases, files of suspects, maps. It reminded him of those days when he used to sift through them with John beside him. He sighs and faces John. Best get this over with. 

"Still, I'm alive, John." Sherlock says quietly. 

"YES, I KNOW NOW—" 

"I didn't _die_ —"

"Just... STOP—Please, stop. I can't—" Sherlock watches as John swallows hard and stares back at him, giving him a hard look. Ever the soldier. 

"Sod this—Why do you have to—You could've just told me, there was a PLAN.  
You could've just told me that I had to act that you're dead—I _CAN_ do that.  
_THAT_ , I can deal with. But witnessing it? Seeing you.. fall? Seeing you... lying on the pavement? COLD?! Feeling. NOTHING! from. your. fucking. pulse. Jesus—I'd take any kind of death, Sherlock. I would have chosen to die than live in that nightmare for the last two years." He hears John curse in a low voice. Hands on his hips, chest heaving. 

Sherlock's mouth opens and closes as he walks back to John, "You think I've wanted that?" 

John sighs, "I don't know. You tell me." 

"You think I chose to do that?" Sherlock asks. 

"You di—" John counters but Sherlock cuts him off. 

"NO. JOHN! I didn't! It wasn't my choice. But I am the one who SHOULD do it. It's the ONLY WAY—" 

"NO!" John shouts back. He barely registered what John was about to do, when he feels John's hands grab him by the collar and pins him to the wall. Sherlock flinched, clenching his teeth, preventing himself to groan. It hurts. The wounds from his capture still fresh and now tingling behind him. But he'll accept this. If John thinks he deserves it. A payment for the pain he caused him. 

"DON'T YOU DARE BLOODY TELL ME THERE'S NO OTHER WAY. BLOODY HELL—  
There could've been other ways, Sherlock. There could've been." 

And it hurts, hearing John say this now, Sherlock felt his pain. Something that Sherlock tucked away in his mind palace. Something that Moriarty triggered. But he needs to focus, he needs to tell John now. 

Sherlock looks at John with pleading eyes, "No, John..."  
Sherlock says quietly, tears falling from his eyes. 

"There's no other way... Moriarty shot himself but his men—the snipers who had their guns on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were still there. And they had orders, John. If I'm still seen alive after my confrontation with Moriarty the orders were to kill you three."

John's grip loosens on Sherlock's lapels as he gazes down his feet but his hands stays there on Sherlock's neck. 

"That's why I did it, John." Sherlock continues softly. 

"I won't apologise for what I did for you, for Mrs. Hudson and for Lestrade. But I sincerely apologise, for the grief, I wasn't aware I've put you through. I didn't thought... I miscalculated... Even my nightmares..." he whispers. 

"Always, John. Always. Those two years that I'm dismantling Moriarty's network abroad. I had nightmares too."  
With that confession, John looked up to Sherlock's face with troubled eyes. 

Sherlock closes his eyes while he unconsciously burrows his cheek on the warmth of John's palm, and he was thankful that John allows it, for Sherlock knows he needs something to hold on to as the memories he tried to forget flows.

"I dreamt, I was falling—and I was suddenly drenched in water. And the water isn't water, John. It felt like liquidated fear. The fear of seeing the look in your eyes as I jumped... The fear of making you feel... this way." Sherlock gestures a hand in front of John. 

"It's the first time I've felt that, John. And for the first time I don't know what to do. And then I'm reminded that I'm not dying, that I'll be alright. But as you walk towards me, as a rubber ball was clutched under my arms—as my pulse slowly leaves my body... As you near, as you asked those people to let you through—that I am a _friend_ —as you _held_ my wrist—"

John flinches on that remark, and in an instant Sherlock feels John's fingers on the soft flesh of his neck feeling his pulse, Sherlock opens his eyes, as John closes his. 

Sherlock continues, "... As I see you crash before me. Broken... in pieces. As the realisation hits you, that I was gone. I've destroyed your world, John. For a second, I had doubts on what I'm doing. That I wanted to get up right there and then, announcing it's not real. Just a show—But John, I couldn't. Not when you're not safe yet. But see? The most important thing is your alive. You're breathing, and you'll be safe. You'll be able to rec—"

"I held my gun on my temple." said John, cutting Sherlock's words.

Sherlock hitches a breath as John opens his eyes and stares at him, blank of emotions.

John sighs heavily, "I held it—The first night without you, the first week without you, the first month without you—I wanted to pull that trigger, Sherlock. God knows I wanted to. My insides hurts so much. It felt like it's burning. The pain was worse than what I've been through in Afghanistan. And you know, I woke up one day—realising why I've felt that way."  
Sherlock tries to look down but John holds his cheeks firmly in level with his eyes. 

"I woke up from a nightmare and I realised, I was in love with you. I realised that—" John pauses as his eyes wells with tears. "That I... was in love with you, and I didn't had the chance to say it. And I was so mad at myself, I was so mad at myself that I wasn't able to let you know that."

Sherlock's eyes widens as he shakes uncontrollably. Tears fell from his eyes, his breathing became hard. John leans to his, forehead to forehead. 

"Breathe. Sherlock. Breathe. Slowly."

Sherlock tries as John guides him. 

"Slowly. Breathe for me, love. One, two, three. Come on now. Breathe with me..." John whispers quietly. 

Sherlock's knees buckles and he slides to the floor. John goes with him. Sherlock wraps his arms on John's waist as John kneels in between Sherlock's legs. 

Gradually, Sherlock's breathing stables as John palms a hand on the fabric over Sherlock's heart. John's warmth almost makes Sherlock feel dizzy. 

"as well, John." Sherlock whispers in a low voice.

—####################—

And then they were kissing. John kisses Sherlock slowly, as if marking his territory. Sherlock's neck, throat, collarbone. John slides Sherlock's coat off and unbuttons Sherlock's shirt with precise movements. And then John proceeds on marking Sherlock's bare skin. Sherlock's shoulders, nipples, John took his time, lapping slowly, sucking and moaning. Sherlock tilts his head up as his grip over John weakens. Then, John was guiding him. They stood up, John fully removes Sherlock's coat and shirt, unbuttons Sherlock's trousers and Sherlock obediently stepping off it. Sherlock's clothes ended a pile on the carpeted floor. The flat felt cold but Sherlock felt like burning. The warmth of John's hand over his as John drags him to the closest bedroom—was enough to overcome the coldness of the night.

John sits Sherlock on the edge of the bed. He strip off from his clothes leaving only his boxers on and stands in the open vee of Sherlock's legs.

"John..." Sherlock breathes. 

Eyes wide, pupils dilated—Sherlock swallows hard as he stares on John's bulge, as he palms John's hips—slowly caressing John's chest. Sherlock feels John's breathing go heavy beneath his hands. 

"John..." 

The man opens his eyes that Sherlock missed. And then John lunges over him, kissing him again— Fast, hard, deep, full of passion as John laid him on his back and once again Sherlock couldn't breathe. John rubs their body slowly, moaning together in ecstacy as their lengths brush with one another over the thin fabric of their boxers. John, with a strength that Sherlock still haven't comprehend, carries him to the center of the bed. And then there were no words—boxers removed, worshipping skins—just the sounds of pleasure, sweats of passion, and the ruffling of sheets are the only ones heard as John takes Sherlock's length by his mouth. Deep, slow, fast, hard— Sherlock cries as orgasm hits him. 

Not waiting for another minute to pass, Sherlock shifts their position and now was looming over John. Sherlock watches John with eyes of a predator over a prey. And then John slides a hand over Sherlock's  cheek as he whispers words of encouragement. The touch was so subtle and soft making Sherlock's chest hurt. He leans down to kiss John while palming on the front. John moans over his mouth and Sherlock feels his own length harden again. Sherlock breaks the kiss looking at John's eyes. John looks back at him, eyes clouded with lust and passion. 

"This is our last night, John." Sherlock whispers. 

"This—" John whispers.

"You’re getting... married." Sherlock implies. 

"I'm..." John nods absentmindedly and Sherlock watches him intently. 

"That's why, I want you to have something... from me."

Before John could reply, Sherlock stops him with a kiss. Deep and slow, as he palms John's length again. He strokes John in time with his mouth, synchronising with his tongue. He marvels as he feel John's bulge swell in his hand. Sherlock breaks the kiss once again—chest heaving as he positions John's knees so that he can straddle him. 

John's eyes widens as he realises what Sherlock was up to. He tries to get up but Sherlock pushes him back. Sherlock fishes a small bottle of lube under the pillow, flicks it open, emptying its contents to his palm and rubs it on John's length. 

"I'm yours, John." Sherlock whispers to John's ears as he stroke the man in slow moan-earning motions. And John moans feeling helpless and high at the same time.

"S-Sherlock..." John breathes.  
"I want to be... yours." Sherlock murmurs, as John fists his hands on the sheet that he could reach.  
They both gasp as Sherlock lowers himself inside John, finally. 

"Jesus—so tight! Sherlock. We should—"  
John grimaces as Sherlock pushes himself down further. 

"I'm f-fine. I've s-stretched myself... e-earlier."  
Sherlock squirms as he twists for the right angle. 

"You.." John bites his lower lip as Sherlock moans above him. Watching him panting heavily, flushed, those hardened nipples looking enticing, tousled curls. God John wanted to tug them. But he tried to keep a clear mind, or Sherlock might got hurt. 

"S-Sherlock, listen to me. You'll bleed."  
Sherlock shakes his head. "N-No. I won't. I'll be..." 

His eyes widens as John's head touches his pleasure point.  
" _John..._ " Sherlock moans and squirms. 

John shudders as Sherlock begins to move, "Bloody hell, you feel so good. Okay— Slowly, now."

John slides his hands over Sherlock's legs murmuring encouragement and assurance.  
Then Sherlock rides over him, and John welcomes every downfall as he thrusts upward carefully, in rhythm with Sherlock.

One and united, as they savour the abundance of pleasure. As John hits the peak of his orgasm, he grabs Sherlock down and they kiss each other deeply. Memorising each others mouth—every slide of tongue, slowly, tenderly as the vestiges of pleasure recedes.  
Sherlock's movements slows and eventually John slides out of Sherlock. 

Sherlock weakly grabs a clean fabric over the desk drawer and cleans himself and John. John whispers gratitude as he takes Sherlock in his arms wrapping him protectively with a blanket. Sherlock burrows his face on John's neck, sliding a leg in between John's. They held each other in silence, skin to skin, John's lips to Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock's arm to John's shoulder, as drops of rain began to clatter on the roof. As they succumbed, sated, and in peace, allowing sleep and exhaustion to pull them into slumber.

—####################—

It was five in the morning when Sherlock extricates himself carefully from John's warmth. He pulls the duvet over John's shoulder and kisses the man's forehead. He brushes John's hair lightly careful not to wake the man. Sherlock props his pillow beside John and he smiles as John reaches for it. He watches as John burrows his face on his pillow whispering his name, in a muffled voice—making sure John was still asleep, he heads to the bathroom.

The light of the morning gently casts away the gloomy feeling of the overnight rain. Sherlock, dressed in his suit, shrugs his coat on and peeks on his bedroom once again. He walked slowly to the desk, pulls the second drawer carefully, picking a cream medium sized envelope and placing it beside the lamp. He gazes down to the man still sleeping and snoring lightly—God, looking at John like this, Sherlock wants to cry. He covers a fist over his mouth as he prevents a harsh sob from escaping. Their love-making last night was unexpected. It was so surreal Sherlock felt it was a dream. 

With one last look over John, he heads to the living room. The memories almost knocks him on his feet as he enters the living room. When he first met John, when John first sat on his chair. The sleepless nights of solving cases over the couch. When he plays the violin for John. The kitchen table—John making tea. John washing the dishes on the sink. John coming out from the bathroom. John coming down the upstairs. Sherlock closes his eyes and tucks every single one of them to its new room in his mind palace.

And with a bitter smile, he walks to the door. Holding the cold knob in his hand, he stops and turns the knob, giving his bedroom one last look. With a lot of thoughts and possibilities circling his mind, he exits 221B, to the familiar stairs that held a lot memories—he turns his coat collar up, hails a cab, and leaves Baker Street with his heart behind.

—####################—

In the unusual silence of the morning that he was never used to, John lie awake on Sherlock's bed, allowing tears to fall freely in his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> Massive mistakes are all mine—courtesy of messed up writing + crying over a song + the song being [ Could It Be Any Harder](https://youtu.be/raVEQhNtV7s) by The Calling. Go listen. Thank you. Come say hi, [ @ariotofcurls](https://www.twitter.com/ariotofcurls) on Twitter. I am in need of someone to talk to after writing this.


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